BORN IN CHINA

Call me ‘sensitive,’ but as a rule I just can’t watch those “Crocodile eats zebra as it swims across an African stream” kind of film productions. However, in the scheme of things “Born in China” goes relatively light on gruesome scenes such as the foregoing description would indicate.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t “pull any punches,” and there are a few scenes in which, for instance, a snow leopard grasps a young calf by the neck, or is seen dragging a newly killed mountain goat back to its den. Speaking of snow leopards, there are only 6,000 of these magnificent felines still in existence, and they are being trophy hunted to the tune of one kill per day.

“Born in China” is a magnificent, full-color production, and spins the true tales of several species of wild animals, including pandas, monkeys, mountain goats, and of course, snow leopards; which live in the highlands of China. I never realized such compassion for a predator species ‘til I watched this documentary.

Under Dawa's nurturing, her cubs are growing into two impressive young cats. And she's just had a successful hunt which comes none too soon. Her cubs are now fully weaned and hungry for some fresh meat. They've been watching and learning the ways of the great hunter, their morn, (but are not yet prepared to hunt on their own).

Suddenly across the valley, the intruder has returned.

(The ‘intruder’ refers to another female snow leopard who vies for the choice animal-rich territory which Dawa calls ‘home’).

This time, she has returned with her three nearly grown sons. Scarcity of prey has brought them into Dawa's territory, and they are more than prepared to take all that is hers. Dawa's old rival is much more emboldened now that she has reinforcements.

Her powerful foe, and Dawa both know the latter of the two would never survive a fight against all four of her competitors.

However, Dawa can't bring herself to abandon this precious food. Her cubs must eat, and when it comes to their survival, Dawa would fight almost any foe. The trade-off between life and death is sometimes a very difficult calculation. But then the other leopards move in. (Dawa watches from a distance, and reluctantly decides to “turn tail and run”).

Outnumbered and out-fanged, Dawa retreats to guard her cubs. Not satisfied with merely stealing Dawa's kill, the interlopers now pursue her to let her know, they're here to stay. To save her young, Dawa must lead them out of the area. She has experienced overwhelming humiliation. The proud snow leopard and her cubs have been expelled from their own home.

As the temperatures begin to plummet, the once mighty Queen of the Mountain hasn't made a kill in over a week. Now, she's forced to share her unfamiliar new territory with her more successful rivals. She must survey the area constantly to get the lay of the land and reestablish her dominion with scent markings. But now she's been spotted by a male snow leopard. She defends her ground bravely, but is forced to retreat back to her cubs. Suddenly, those playful days of summer are a fading memory.

Dawa's hunting successes have been few and far between. But a flock of sheep, seeking shelter from the weather, have just moved within range. However, now the unexpected occurs. The snow has concealed jagged rocks, and as Dawa leaps from ledge to ledge in pursuit of a choice lamb, she injures her paw. Dawa knows if she and her cubs are to survive, she must be in top physical condition. The ‘hunt’ demands it.

Back up on the high plateau the winter snow lingers well into spring, and Dawa is still fighting to provide for her cubs. The injury to her foot has greatly hampered her hunting ability, and she no longer has the speed to chase down prey, as nimble as these wild sheep.

However, an opportunity now arises. In springtime, domesticated yaks are released to graze in the higher elevations. These beasts are ten times as heavy as Dawa, and one blow from their powerful horns could be fatal. Going up against a whole herd is like attacking an army. Yet, her cubs are relying on her. It's now or never.

The limping Dawa pours on her limited speed, and sinks her fangs into the neck of a newborn yak. The calf's mother rallies to save her baby. But Dawa refuses to let go. She understands this is her last chance. However, a yak mother's will to protect her young is just as strong as Dawa's.

The yak strikes Dawa hard with her horns. The desperate feline is injured badly. One mother's brave rescue of her baby is another's tragic failure to feed her own. Dawa stumbles away from “the scene of the crime,” and her last opportunity to save herself and her young cubs from certain death.

(As the documentary reaches its conclusion, a momentary glimpse of the dead Dawa comes into view. Snow is falling hard around her, and we can only surmise that her cubs have also succumbed to hunger and the elements, and lie somewhere nearby.

One can only imagine the waning emotions which filled up Dawa’s dying frame. The pride of having, "push come to shove" stood up to a larger foe, the inherent satisfaction with having given her last full measure of devotion, the inestimable sadness of her best not having been good enough; the overwhelming grief which came with her inability to save her children from the same fate as her own. A string of ‘bad luck.’ The survival of the fittest. Providence has once again won out).

In Chinese mythology, when a life ends, a crane carries that soul to rejoin the cycle of birth and rebirth. From the end to the beginning. Time pushes this cycle ever forward. The young become adults. The adults grow old. Death is not the end. It is merely a waypoint in a circle that continues endlessly.

Every creature plays its part in this great cyclical symphony. Each life lived is just one beat in the larger beautiful rhythm. This vast land breeds both love and hardship. But in the hardship, there is hope. This is where they live. This is where they die. This is where they grow. This is where they are born.

from the script of “Born in China”, a documentary with editing and additional language by William McDonald, PhD

THE SLIGHTEST OF INTERRUPTIONS

I was talking to our pastor's daughter on the phone this evening about a special song I will be singing in the worship service tomorrow, and Saundra and I found ourselves reminiscing about an event which happened six or eight years ago.

At the time, I was engaged in a ceremony in the fellowship hall, and I happened to be in the process of awarding her daughter, Leandra, the Abba Counseling Center Most Notable Intern of All Time Award; (or some terminology quite similar to this). Prior to the event I had contracted with a trophy company to engrave a beautiful plaque, and I had written a monologue worthy of the occasion.

As the pastor and his wife (her grandparents), Matthew and Saundra (her parents), James and Jenny (her uncle and aunt), and my wife sat in unpadded metal chairs before me, and Leandra stood beside me, I droned on about my intern’s accomplishments, and my high hopes for her future.

I was in the process of waxing eloquent, and half a minute from finishing my speech… when the hallway door behind me was pushed open, and one of the deacons appeared in the threshold. Did I mention I was very close to finishing my monologue? (Yeah, I thought I did). Did I mention Mr. Manchester might have easily seen that some sort of ceremony was being conducted through the glass window in the door? (No, I guess I didn’t, but I’m mentioning it now).

Well, dear readers, with this unexpected development, I did the only thing that entered my mind to do under the circumstances. I pushed back! I turned from my written material and closed the door in the deacon's face! As a retired military man, no doubt, I thought,

“Nope. Not on my watch! You’re not going to ruin this ceremony!”

And as with so many reminiscences, what transpired seemed all too momentous at the time, but with the benefit of passing years, it is little more than a footnote, and cannot help but elicit a chuckle. (Perhaps more than one).

Did I mention I had been engaged in awarding my dear intern the most singular recognition this counseling center will ever award? (Yeah, I thought I did). Did I mention she went on to do some wonderful things? (No, I guess I didn’t, but, well, she did).

For you see, Leandra went on to finish her bachelor’s and master’s degrees in religion or ministry, as the case may be, and is currently the web coordinator for an international ministry which has conducted overseas revivals attended by multiplied millions of people, and as a net result multiplied millions have come to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ.

I am pleased. Yes, I am pleased.

*Note: All names have been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty.

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 80. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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EVEN A BROKEN CLOCK IS RIGHT TWICE A DAY

Today is, if it can properly be referred to it this way, Easter Eve. A very special season of the year when we celebrate the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, and the gift of eternal life.

Speaking of eternal life, (and I don’t mean to be sacrilegious) the two liberal cable news networks have invested eternal life in their 24/7/365 coverage of our sitting president.

I mean, you have a couple of broadcasting companies who claim to offer the public newsworthy programming, but which, since the election of Donald Trump, have never ceased to focus on his and his administration’s discrepancies.

To be sure, I didn’t vote for “The Donald,” and I don’t like him even a little bit, I recognize just how unprepared he was to assume the reins of this high office, I never cease to marvel at his tweets, I am awestruck with the shenanigans of his cabinet members, and the speed with which he changes out members of his inner circle; almost as quickly as he changes underwear. (I presume he does this on a daily basis). For a man who claimed he was going to “drain the swamp,”…well, now I think he has added a few thousand crocodiles and a buncha rotting vegetation.

Nevertheless, this never-ending coverage of the Great Communicator, (I mean Great Tweeter) is way over the top, and I can only wonder how the news anchors and reporters of CNN and MS-NBC stand themselves. The negativity they continue to spout has to be changing the color and consistency of their internal organs.

After all, even a broken clock is right twice a day. But you can listen to what DT refers to as “The Fact News” throughout the course of a day and night, and not hear one positive perspective about our current Commander in Chief.

Good, bad or indifferent, I suppose we will continue to be exposed to this 24/7/365 rant against our president ‘til a Democrat moves into the White House. Only then will CNN have any hope of reassuming its status, (as James Earl Jones claims in the opening credits), “The most trusted name in news.” (Of course, CNN commissioned the voice of Darth Vader to read those lines, so they might be a bit biased).

SHARING MY SERMONS WITH A WEREWOLF

There are some people you meet along the way that you will never forget.

Andy Bos was one of them.

As one looks towards the pulpit, he sat on the second pew on the right side of the church. He was as faithful to the house of God as a new clock, and his mind was as sharp as a tack; though his 9 plus decades had taken a decided toll on, (as scripture characterizes it) “the outward man which perisheth.”

His wife having pre-deceased him years before, and being “foot loose and fancy free” Andy began to date the widow, Naomi; another aged member of our church. It seemed the duo spent every available moment together, inside and outside the sanctuary, and were often seen at the local McDonald’s, the city park, the library, and other local venues. In spite of their obvious affection for one another, they never married. And their failure to enter into the blessed state of matrimony remained a mystery to one and all.

I was privileged to spend time with, and converse with Andy. And often, on Sunday mornings during our “meet and greet” time, we would converse about, well, any conceivable subject. But it seemed the focus always came back to “leaving.”

He was simply ready to go on to his reward.

A second, “but well down the rung” topic with my aged friend, were the Hollywood exploits of his grandson, the actor Taylor Lautner; noted for the “Twilight” series of movies. He often mentioned having mailed some of my Wednesday night topical presentations to the young man; hoping that these spiritually-oriented teachings would have an impact on him.

And though Andy lived in an assisted living facility, even well into his 90’s he did his own driving. At least ‘til increasingly frail health precluded his getting behind the wheel. And after one or two parishioners offered to transport him to church, and subsequently “petered out,” my wife and I took on what I considered to be a privileged responsibility to assure he had the opportunity to worship the One he loved, with those whom he loved.

Eventually, Andy “took to his bed” and prepared to meet his Maker, and travel to that place which he had referred to on an almost obsessive basis.

As my friend’s demise drew near, I could not help but visit with him one last time. And as Jean and I walked into his room, Andy awoke, opened those kind eyes for which he was so well known, and attempted a weak smile.

We walked over to him, and made the smallest of small talk. And then, I asked Andrew if he’d like me to sing to him. (He had often told me how much he enjoyed my solos, and I thought this sort of “send-off” would be a fitting tribute to him). He immediately acquiesced. Though I sing many of the same songs often, I depend on sheet music for the words. As a result I decided to sing THE national anthem of the Christian church; one that I’ve never had any trouble remembering.

“Amazing Grace.

How sweet the sound

that saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost,

but now I’m found,

was blind but now I see.”

I had hardly begun when Andy raised those frail little arms towards heaven, and mouthed the words,

“Hallelujah. Hallelujah.”

We took our leave shortly thereafter.

If we are to believe angels have names, I have often fancied the death angel who ferried Andy to “the other side of the Jordan” was also an Andy. (Perhaps I’ve watched too many “Touched By An Angel” broadcasts).

My friend was finally Home; with a capital “H.” No longer would he talk about it. Now he would had the inestimable opportunity of experiencing it.

The longer I live, and the closer I get the more I think about my eternal destination, (though I’m only 30 as long as I avoid mirrors). I used to accuse my friend, Andy, (behind his back of course) of focusing far too much on heaven, and far too little on this life. But as I get increasingly closer to my end, and increasingly further from my beginning, I get increasingly fonder of the destination in which my friend already resides.

I sincerely hope Andy’s thespian grandson, Taylor, will one day slip one of my audios into his CD player, and will be influenced to make a decision for our Lord Jesus Christ. When we give, without measure, of our time, talents and treasures we may never know whom we will, ultimately, influence, nor the impact which we may exercise upon them.

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 44. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE FOLDED NAPKIN

While there is no direct correlation between the Jewish meal, and their preparation of the dead, the following story could still have some spiritual significance; in that a napkin was part and parcel of both activities.

Why was the linen face cloth folded and separate from the shroud after Jesus’ resurrection?

John Chapter 20 verse 7 makes us aware that the napkin, which covered the face of Jesus, was not just cast to the side like the linen wrappings. Scripture informs us that the napkin was, rather, folded neatly, and lay where the head of Jesus had once lain.

Early on Easter morning, before the dawn of the day, Mary Magdalene arrived at the tomb, and discovered the stone had been rolled away. She ran and found Simon Peter and John and made them aware of this marvelous event.

She said,

“They have taken the Lord's body out of the tomb, and I don't know where they have put him!”

Peter and the other disciple lost no time and immediately ran to the gravesite. John outran Peter and stooped and looked into the sepulcher, and saw the linen cloth lying there, but he didn't immediately enter the place.

Now Simon Peter arrived and stepped inside. He also saw the shroud, while the napkin which had covered Jesus' head was folded, and separate from the grave clothes.

If we are to understand the significance of the folded napkin, we must understand something about Hebrew tradition of that day. The folded napkin had much to do with the Master and Servant, and every Jewish boy was aware of this tradition.

When the servant prepared the dinner table for his master, he was careful to set it exactly the way the master expected it to be done.

After the table was furnished, the servant waited, out of sight, until the master finished his meal. The servant did touch the table again; until the master was finished with his meal. When the master was done eating, he would rise from the table, wipe his fingers, his mouth, and his beard, and would, at this point, wad up the napkin and throw it onto the table.

The servant would then understand the master was finished with his supper, and begin to clear the table. In that day and time, the wadded napkin meant, “I’m finished.”

However, if the master stood, and neatly folded his napkin, and, subsequently, laid it beside his plate, the servant remained where he was, since he understood the folded napkin meant,

“I'm coming back again!”


By William McDonald, PhD. Paraphrase of anonymous author. Copyright pending

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REMEMBERING THEIR NAMES. REMEMBERING THEIR STORIES. Pts. 1-2

I admit it. I spend entirely too much time on the two 24 hour a day “Bash Trump and bash him good” cable channels. That being said, there has been an advertisement on CNN lately to promote their series about notable families of our time. In the last couple of days, the commercial has alluded to the Kennedys, and the announcer intones the words,

“You know their names, but you don’t know their stories.”

Which, as they say, got me to thinking.

Interestingly enough, a few hours after the ad appeared on television for the ‘umpteenth’ time, a social media friend of mine from England posted something interesting on her page.

A ten or twelve minute video filmed in 1913 in the Blackpool Promenade area; (wherever that is).

And throughout the black & white footage, multiplied hundreds of people can be seen milling about the streets of this ancient promenade in which people of that day and time strolled along, rode a horse-drawn tourist trolley, ducked in one or another of the non-descript pubs for fish and chips, and generally enjoyed themselves.

A young couple cross the street, smiling and aimlessly chatting about something personal to themselves. They jog the last several steps to avoid falling victim to the trolley. The camera sweeps to the left, and a middle-aged couple, and three or four young children, the youngest a girl of five or six, stare blankly into its lens.

And, as Billy Joel so often sang the words,

“And, so it goes. And, so it goes.”

Pt. 2

As the video runs along to its sure conclusion, numerous other individuals, couples, and families walk into the field of view in pursuit and completion of whatever plans they happened to have on that particular day and hour.

“You know their names, but you don’t really know their stories.”

Well, in this case, and as is the case with so many other ancient videos, we don’t know their names, and we know nothing at all about their stories.

And each and every time I happen upon a bit of black & white celluloid, whether it be the Blackpool Promenade, or a host of men, women and children celebrating the end of WWI, or, for that matter, the inauguration of Teddy Roosevelt, I think,

“Not one among the hundreds and thousands who walk and talk, wave or cheer, not one, be it man, woman, child or infant in the arms of his mother remain with us. They’re all gone. They ran out of sunlight on the singular day depicted in the film segment, and returned to their singular homes; only to get up and complete their respective business, again and again, for whatever time God allotted each and every respective one among them.

The youngest infant in the arms of his or her mother reached adulthood, married, bore and raised children, retired, lived and breathed his or her last, and were laid to rest alongside mother, father, brother and sister.

In the poetic narrative, Thanatopsis, by William Cullen Bryant, we read the poignant words,

“So live, that when thy summons comes to join the innumerable caravan which moves to that mysterious realm where each shall take his chamber in the silent halls of death. Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust. Approach thy grave like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."

Afterward:

I think we should concern ourselves with the providential plans which God has for each of us, as individuals, and should be about His business; lest we maintain little more than regrets, and not lie down to very pleasant dreams.

I sometimes bring up the old home videos which my parents made on their vacations to their cabin in the Carolinas. Daddy is busy hanging a piece of drywall. Mama is cooking a hamburger on the grill. One of my father’s best buds is painting a window frame.

But that was then, and this is now. Each of these beloved people have assumed their rightful place among the billions who have gone on before them.

And one day, sooner than we can imagine, we, too, may find ourselves among the non-descript crowd on some long-lost piece of celluloid, and someone may muse,

“I don’t know their names, and I don’t know their stories.”

And though the world forget me, as a believer I’m convinced that my Lord will not only remember my name, but my story, as well.

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 80. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

In the movie, “Bagger Vance,” Will Smith, (Bagger) plays what amounts to a Golf Angel. For you see, he has been sent to assist a character played by Matt Damon, (Ranolph Junah) with his golf game.

But it is not just any game, it is THE game of his life, for this former amateur golfer finds himself in a match with perhaps the most notable and adept golfers of his time.

Captain Junah has just come back from “The War to end all wars,” (WWI) and he has come back a changed man. For during one especially ferocious battle, every man in his unit has been killed or severely wounded, and only he has been left unscathed. And as the result of his heroic actions during the battle, the captain has been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Ranolph’s emotions are raw, and he lacks confidence, and he suffers from what we refer to today as PTSD, but what was referred to in that day and time as “shell shock.” And it was only the result of the pleas of the town’s people, and his former sweetheart, (who is attempting to save the family fortune, and the golf course on which he finds himself) that he has consented to play the game.

Bagger, who has agreed to caddy for the captain, had been giving him pointers throughout the game, but to no avail. But the young man finds himself falling further and further behind the leader.

As Ranolph steps up to take his next shot, Bagger interrupts his swing, and says, “Mr. Junah, there’s only one authentic shot, one that is truly yours, and you can’t choose it.”

The captain is miffed to have had his swing interrupted, and angrily replies, “What do you mean? Of course I can choose my shot. I must choose my shot!”

Bagger smiles a whimsical smile, and responds, “Oh no suh, the shot must choose you.”

Now, in terms of the movie, Bagger’s implication was that for any given hole, on any given course, there is one best club, one best swing, one best solution.

And I think we can learn a valuable lesson from our golf angel’s admonition. The first time I ever viewed the movie, and listened to Bagger’s words, well, it just came to me. There is a valuable spiritual lesson to be gleaned here.

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

You see, I am convinced, and scriptures assures us, “My times are in His hands,” (Psalms 31:15) and “The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me,” (Psalms 138:8) and “Before I ever took my first breath, You planned every day of my life.” (Psalms 139:16)

If we believe and embrace the truth of scripture, it is apparent that God knew us by name, and planned all our days, before we were a twinkle, and even before He made the twinkling stars. (And we can be sure that He loves us so much more than those magnificent, astronomical creations.)

Indeed, the shot must choose us. For any given decision, among any set of options which we encounter throughout the course of our lives, there is one best choice, one best action, which has the ultimate capacity to help complete our destiny, and which agrees with our Lord’s perfect plan for us as individuals.

Now, I’m not talking about what loaf of bread we decide to purchase, or whether we check our mail at 1PM or 5AM. No, I’m referring to those crucial, “have to get it right” type of decisions which have the wherewithal to complete our Heavenly Father’s plans for our lives, (or if we are oblivious to the best shot, bring us to ruin.)

Indeed, I believe the shot must choose us, and it is paramount that we get it right. Our very destiny is at stake. I believe it would be pleasing to God that every one of His children pray the following simple prayer, and pray it on a daily basis.

“Oh Father, great Ruler of the universe. You Who knew me before I was formed or ever took my first breath,… let the shot choose me.”

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 33. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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MAYBE TWOUBLE LOOKIN' FOR YOU

I pedal

I pedal a lot

I pedal in the wee hours of the morning

And during the course of almost 4 years, and over 11,000 miles of pedaling the same 10 mile course, I’ve “run into” some pretty strange scenarios; (in addition to a couple of calamitous falls).

A woman standing next to the highway, in the shrubbery of a bank, holding a small terrier, and singing the most eerie tune that’s ever been sung. (Needless to say, I keep pedaling).

Speaking of four-footed beasts of the canine variety, a miniature, emaciated Doberman tied to a lamppost next to the highway. It goes without saying, I can- not leave her there, but take her home, feed her, and quickly dispatch the precious pooch to a no-kill shelter.

A young man, perhaps 6’ tall, 170 lbs., walking along the sidewalk towards me, as I am preparing to cross a four lane thoroughfare. I look to my right. I see him. I look to the left. No traffic. I look to the right, and he has vanished from my sight. Did I mention there is an 8’ wall on his left, and a well-lit highway on his right?

A young man with a cane standing at a busy intersection. Approaching him he asks if I can direct him to a particular part of town. Johnny (for that is his name) tells me that he has been walking for five (5) hours; having been released earlier that evening from the county jail. Making a calculated decision I suggest he keep walking. I will finish pedaling home, retrieve my car, and drive him the remaining couple of miles to his home. (That I am writing this story and have suffered no harm or alarm speaks for itself).

And then tonight''

Perhaps the most bizarre scenario of all

I have just crossed over one of several four lane highways which exist on my measured pathway, and mounted the next sidewalk; for I only pedal on sidewalks. Safer, don’t ya know? (Ironic, I suppose, given this strange series of stories).

I hear it before I see it. Some muted, unidentified protestations. I turn my gaze in a diagonal direction. And oddly enough, as it seems now, on the exact same corner where I encountered ‘Jailhouse Johnny’ are a large black SUV, and a late model semi-truck cab. Parked at a traffic light, I notice the driver of the SUV is standing just behind his vehicle, while the driver of the larger truck is engaged in a struggle with what appears to be an adult female.

I think none of us know exactly how we will respond to a seeming emergency until it “drops from the sky” and figuratively exclaims, “Here I am.” Oh, we can imagine what we’d do, but “the proof is (definitely) in the pudding.”

I do not hesitate

It occurred to me at that moment that I was willing to do whatever I had to do to rescue the apparent “damsel in distress.” At the moment, at least, I had no consideration whatever of the presence of firearms, or taking on two ‘bad boys’ at a time, (or the fact that I am approaching 70 years of age).

I immediately begin peddling my speedy (well, not so much) bike towards what appears to be the scene of a crime. As I pedal I attempt to “get the mark” of the situation unraveling before me. It seems a woman is being dragged into the driver’s side of the cab, as if the offender intends to take her against her will.

Twenty feet from the truck now, and the young (or not so much) lady is being pulled (or clamoring) over the legs of the driver and into a jump or bench seat to his right.

Ten feet from my goal now, and the driver’s door slams shut. I peer into the poorly lit cab and it seems the driver and potential detainee are still, and awaiting the decision of the other vehicle. The man walks to the driver’s side of his car, gets in, makes a 90 degree turn, and the semi-cab follows suite. I watch the two vehicles as they accelerate, and eventually disappear out of sight.

As ‘Mrs. Fairfax’ (re. the novel, ‘Jane Eyre’) was heard to say,

“What to do? What to do?"

I reach into my pocket and consider the possibility of dialing 911. And yet. Wasn’t the woman ‘cool, calm and collected’ as the door slammed shut in my face? And didn’t the driver of the other vehicle casually stroll to his car, as though nothing was amiss?

I consider an alternative possibility

Perhaps the three individuals knew one another. Perhaps the driver of the first vehicle stopped at the light to allow the woman to ride in the second. Perhaps she and the pilot of the second were a bit ‘tanked’ and simply engaging in some raucous revelry. And rather than using the passenger door, she chose to enroll herself in the cab the hard way.

I delay. I debate. I deliberate. (All those ‘D’ words).

I desist

Approximately three minutes elapse and I hear it before I see it.

(Rather familiar, don’t you think)?

A sheriff’s department cruiser comes sailing down the highway at break-neck speed, its red and blue lights flashing, and its siren screaming.

I can only surmise, having witnessed the unusual scenario unfolding before him or her, a witness retrieved his or her phone and made the call.

My brother is, himself, a long haul truck driver, and I often give him a ring as he is on his way to Miami and I am completing my ‘O-dark-thirty’ trek. This morning my routine was the same, though the story I shared with him was anything but routine.

Wayne, being a man of few words, generally allows me to do most of the talking. However, having heard my fateful tale, he responded with,

“Maybe you should ride in the daylight, rather than the dark!”

I responded with,

“Very wise advice. Maybe you’re right!”

There’s a scene in the movie, “The Karate Kid” in which ‘Daniel-son’ interacts with an Okinawan bully.

Our hero speaks.

“Hey man. I’m not looking for trouble!”

To which the local thug responds,

“Maybe twouble lookin’ for you!”

I can relate

As a freshman in high school I learned an old Irish prayer. It seems rather fitting here:

"From ghoulies, and ghosties and long-legged beasties, and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us."

And “one more for the road.”

Since I wrote the foregoing description of several scenarios to which I have been exposed during my morning bike treks over the years, I have been forced to relinquish my recurring ‘spin’ in favor of putting one foot in front of the other. (But that is a whole ‘nother story).

At any rate, as I was putting in my ‘morning 2’ (as in two miles) today, and had turned off Highway 540 onto Spirit Lake Road, (an apt name) and was walking down the parallel sidewalk, I happened on a rather bewildering sight.

And while the entire situation fell together in the space of eight or ten seconds, and due to the darkness I was not able to discern what the individual was initially ‘up to,’ a tall, slender male (or female) suddenly bounded across the front yard, and ran in a serpentine pattern towards a nearby bush.

Arriving at the moderately tall bush, my ‘momentary friend’ crouched down behind it, and while squatting there continued to hold my gaze. And very much like a recent Progressive Insurance commercial, he (or she) continued to squat “right there in front of God and everybody,” as I passed within twenty paces or him (or her).

And while at 225 pounds I “cut a mean figure,” and while the metal cane which I held was capable of inflicting significant damage, I admit to looking over my right shoulder ‘til I’d left the ethereal him (or her) far behind.

Given the abject wierdness of the moment, I was tempted to utter a few words; in hopes of staving off the possibility of an unlikely attack. In retrospect I might have done well to shout, “Ready or not, here I come” (or) “Dost thou think that yonder bush covereth thee sufficiently? No, yon phantom. It does not” (or) “Do you realize how utterly stupid you look squatting behind that bush?”

At this stage, I cannot be sure why I held my peace. But I think I may have done so to forestall the most likely possible response…

“Maybe twouble lookin’ for you!”

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 40. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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SHARING MY BIG GULP WITH ROVER

I drove a big brown UPS delivery truck for twenty years, and was never happier than when I pulled into the local hub for the last time on October 23, 1997. As I coasted into that same old space where I always parked # 59299, along with the great captain of our souls, I might well have uttered,

“It is finished.”


Oddly enough, now two decades into my retirement, I am still delivering packages for “the greatest ship in the shipping business” but only… in my dreams. For at least once a month, in that ethereal nether world we call sleep, I find myself with a few packages whose addresses I don’t recognize; and running desperately late.


Years earlier, as a matter of fact closer to the beginning, than the ending of my tenure, my route included both businesses and residences in one quadrant of a small city, And several times a month my deliveries included street numbers on 5th Street, SE. I can tell you that 5th Street, SE was very much like any other street in "Winter Haven," (the location of the famous "Cypress Gardens,") with one exception.


… a pesky, non-descript dog which chased my truck every time I rolled past the house, (or more succinctly, the yard) in which he resided.

And I can tell you, I wearied of my frequent confrontation with the little mongrel. To my credit, however, I did not run the beast into the ground, as a truck driver once did my own dog. Nevertheless, I formulated a plan of attack.


There just happened to be a 7-11 located near the infamous site of my all-too frequent encounters with “Rover.” And on a particular day when I was scheduled to deliver a couple of packages “on the street where he lived” I pulled into the parking lot of that convenience store, hopped down the steps of my vehicle, walked into the door, stepped up to the beverage machine, pulled a “Big Gulp” cup from the holder, placed it under the ice dispenser, and finally, filled it to the brim with syrupy, brown Coca-Cola.


Returning to my truck, I hopped back up the steps from whence I came, sat down, buckled my seat belt, started the engine, and aimed my truck towards my next destination. I suppose if I’d given my mission a code name, it might well have been


… Destination Dog


As I approached my little friend’s grassy hangout, I saw him rush into the road, and suddenly he was “neck and neck” with the front tire of my truck. However, unlike dozens of those previous animate/inanimate races which had transpired in the past, this time, rather than applying the gas, I applied the brake, turned off the ignition, grabbed the Big Gulp, rushed down the steps, chased down old Rover, and


… poured that nice, brown, syrupy mess all over the poor pooch!


And never so much as looking back, I retraced my path to the truck, hopped up the steps, mounted the driver’s seat, strapped the seat belt around me, turned on the ignition, and drove away; leaving the hapless critter “to his own devices.”


Needless to say, dear readers, old Rover never chased # 59299 again.


(And I think I know why)!


Post-Script - Speaking of dreaming UPS dreams...


Last night after I finished writing the previous article, I walked into my dark bedroom, reached into a laundry basket which contains several dozen pair of socks of various types and colors, blindly grabbed a pair, and slipped them on. Only to wake up a few minutes ago and discover I was wearing the one remaining pair of UPS monogrammed socks which remain from that era so long ago.

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 45. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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ELVIS: HE TOUCHED ME. Pts. 1-2

I was watching a re-run of the PBS Elvis Presley special, “He Touched Me” today, and one segment was especially insightful. (Perhaps, “it went right by me” the first and second times around).

J.D. Sumner met the not yet discovered adolescent when he was singing with the Blackwood Brothers. Presley was 14 at the time, and had shown up for a concert.

Sumner had, apparently, run into the boy in the theater foyer, or an alleyway, and Elvis told him he didn’t have the money to get in. The gruff-voiced 6’6” Gospel singer told him that anytime he wanted to come to the stage door, anywhere he sang, he’d let him in for free. Over the years, the two developed an increasingly closer bond.

As the segment closed, and gave way to the next, the late great Gospel singer mused,

“After Elvis became famous there were times I had to go to his stage door to get in, …‘cause I didn’t have any money!” (Whether this is just an exaggeration for effect, who can say)?

Elvis was far from perfect. We are all too familiar with his unfaithfulness to his wife, Priscilla, his wild parties while he was on the road, his addiction to prescription drugs, and the hypocrisy which surrounded what he might have described as his “Christian faith.”

But whereas, the majority of what some refer to as “backslidden Christians” tend to distance themselves from every vestige of the Gospel, Presley seemed to do the opposite.

He even insisted on singing, “Peace in the Valley” on the Ed Sullivan Show. Although, the producers of the television production attempted to deter him, he responded with,

“My mama loves that song, and she wants me to sing it; (and I’m going to sing it”)!

(And sing it, he did).

Pt. 2

Many preachers of that day, and time spoke against Elvis and his music, not the least of which was his below the waist gyrations. (He was sometimes filmed from the waist up, as a matter of so-called “public decency”).

In one infamous sermon, southern Pastor Jimmy Snow exclaimed, (paraphrased)

“I am concerned for the welfare of our young people, and how certain factions are corrupting the morals of our teenagers with their music. I’m convinced that the corruption of our society is, at some level, influenced by the music of our society.

When they sing, you feel it down to your toes. You ask one of our youngsters what they like about the music, they’ll tell you, ‘the beat, the beat, the beat.’”

It is said that when Elvis got wind of the criticism of certain vocal ministers throughout the country, he cried.  And after he had time to “settle down,” he said,

“I ain’t trying to corrupt the youth of this country. I’m just doing what I’ve always done with my music. I’m doing the exact same thing I do in church; only different music and different words.”

Whether you like Elvis or whether you don’t, who can deny he will go down in the annals of international recording history as the greatest singer who ever lived.

He left us far too soon, and he left a void in the world that has never yet been filled.

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 80. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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